And they prepared themselves for what was to come with as great eagerness as, I venture to say, would
always be shown to catch the text, if it came at the end, instead of the beginning, of a sermon.
“Shut up,” says Lazyman; “let’s ’ear this ’ere. I knows it’s summut good by the look an him.”
“Don’t make a row,” retorts the Boardman; “who can hear anything while you keeps on like that?”
And there they stood, actually suspending the operation of smoking as they waited the summing up of this remarkably orthodox “preaching of the word.” The sergeant only was a spectator of the scene, and much amused did he seem at the faces that prepared for a grin or a sneer as the forthcoming utterance should demand. Then said Harry solemnly and dramatically:—
“In Want full many a vice is born,
And Virtue in a Dinner;
A well-spread board makes many a Saint,
And Hunger many a sinner.”
From the explosion which followed this antidote to Mr. Brimstone’s sermon, I should judge that the more part of the company believed that Poverty was almost as ample a virtue as Charity itself. They shook their heads in token of assent; they thumped the table in recognition of the soundness of the teaching; and several uttered an exclamation not to be committed to paper, as an earnest of their admiration for the ability of Mr. Highlow, who, instead of being a private soldier, ought, in their judgment, to be Lord Mayor of London. After this recital every one said he thought Mr. Highlow might oblige them.
“Well, I’m no singer,” said Harry.
“Try, Harry!” exclaimed Lazyman: he was a rare one to advise other people to try.
“Trying to sing when you can’t,” answered Harry, “I should think is a rum sort of business; but I’ll tell you what I’ll do if you like. When I was down at Hearne Bay I heard an old fisherman tell a story which—”